


And so...

by L0NE



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles
Genre: Gen, duban not forcing down his emotions for once, no beta we die like men, takes place after what happens on prison island so there be spoilers!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24834901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L0NE/pseuds/L0NE
Summary: And so, Dunban cries.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66





	And so...

The trip back from Prison Island is silent.

Before their descent, everyone had given Melia her time to grieve. Shulk had been comforted by Reyn after Fiora’s sudden appearance. Sharla had tended to nearly everyone’s wounds. 

But there was one person no one could approach. Not because they didn’t want to, but because they didn’t know how.

Ever since Fiora flew away, and all the mechon with her, Dunban stood at the island’s edge, staring at the sky. 

He was wordless. His hand was still at the hilt of his sword, and his eyes were narrowed, as if searching the clouds, still waiting for a faced mechon’s return. It was only when he heard the rustling of armor and Melia saying _We should return now,_ that he turned on his heel and walked down the stairs to leave. Everyone soon followed, quickly trotting behind him. Whether he had any intention of waiting for them if they lagged behind, they didn’t know, and they didn’t want to wait to find out.

Still on the way back home now, Dunban never turns to look at any of them. In comparison to an hour ago, Eryth Sea is deathly quiet. There are no monsters stalking around, nor animals looking for a snack. It makes the trip back go by much faster, but with every reef they cut through, the silence weighs heavier and heavier. So they try to break it up. Small bits of chatter bubble up and die out among them, but Dunban doesn’t respond. Even Shulk hesitantly calls his name, the swordsman doesn’t acknowledge it. All that makes noise is the flutter of his cape in the slight breeze, and it can’t compare to conversation.

Though those outside of Reyn and Shulk have no idea why Dunban is being so standoffish, the tension in the air is enough to make them hesitate to reach out, as well. Afterall, they had never seen him so disturbed before in their travels. It’s as if he’s a different person now.

When they finally return to Alcamoth’s entrance, things immediately get hectic. Prince Kallian, and an amount of guards immeasurable by a Homs’s eye, are waiting for Melia’s return, and swarm her once she leaves the teleporter. The rest of the group is pushed aside, though it’s not like they were expecting anything else. The guards quickly bombard her with questions— as if they already can’t look around and see the answers—

and Kallian swiftly cuts them off to ask her what happened directly.

From the side, Dunban watches. He doesn’t know what he expects to happen. Considering how she mourned on Prison Island, he figures that might start up again. Maybe she would walk off. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything at all.

However, Melia straightens her back, takes a deep breath, and goes into detail about the encounter. No waterworks. No attitude. Just the details. It surprises him. And it surprises him even more than she still goes on to air her grievances, how she wishes she could have done something more, how sad she is— what princess would be that candid about a situation like this? Boldly acknowledging how you feel in front of people who may see that as a sign of weakness? Who might try to take advantage of you?

He feels sick to his stomach, watching her.

He wants to leave. He wants to be alone for now.

Quietly, Dunban lets himself get absorbed into the crowd, putting distance between him and the rest of his group, and then walks off into the capital. It isn’t a particularly hard escape, as the guards are a good enough camouflage for him to take advantage of. 

If someone else notices him leaving or calls out to him, he doesn’t hear it. Dunban just keeps walking, away, far away, as far as he can go.

Alcamoth is spacious, so his walk runs long. He ends up stopping on the upper level, toward the front railings that are sparsely populated in the evenings. One or two High Entia give him a look as he passes by their clubs, but they don’t interrogate him or chase him down. They turn their heads away soon after, and he turns his. A mutual exchange.

When Dunban is sitting against the railing, looking out at the Eryth Sea in front of him, he has all the time in the world to think. Yet he can’t come up with any coherent thoughts. Even on the trek back from Prison Island, he had been in the same state— thousands of inklings of ideas spun around in his mind, but he couldn’t connect any of them to form anything that _means_ something. It’s all white noise to accompany how empty and utterly lost he feels.

After moments of silence spent simply staring, listening to the hum of the city, _So that was why there was no body left behind,_ is Dunban’s first thought.

It’s rather blunt, but the shock of the situation has had him thinking strangely to begin with. Back then, when the mechon had all been either defeated or had retreated only to leave a splatter of blood behind where Fiora had been thrown to, Dunban had wordlessly chalked it up to the mechon feeding on her, and had left it at that. It devastated him to not be able to have some part of her to return to the Bionis, however small, but his heart had mended itself regarding that matter over time. Now, though, knowing that her body had been stolen, his chest tightens, and those stitches begin to unravel. And then, realizing that she must have been alive this whole time, and not dead, makes that tightenness increase, like a vice grip on his heart.

What had Fiora gone through to become this way? Dunban couldn’t even imagine the full extent of it, but he had some guesses. Her body was covered in metal on Prison Island, like armor, like a mechon— it was possible, maybe, that that _was_ her body now. Her original one may have been too broken and beaten from her encounter with Metal Face, so it would make sense that it would be replaced with something more durable. All Dunban can do is pray that she was unconscious for such a thing. If she weren’t… It would have no doubt been an excruciating experience. 

Maybe that was why Fiora was different now. Maybe the change in bodies was too much for her, and it changed her personality as well. But at the same time, Dunban notes, her voice was completely different, and she didn’t even seem to recognize the lot on Prison Island. Her memory might have been wiped, then, and her voice was a reflection of that.

This is all just hypothesizing on Dunban’s part, something that isn’t his strong point to begin with, and it’s even harder to do based on a two minute interaction. But he doesn’t doubt he’s on the right track, at least. He may be missing a lot of details, but he can safely assume that the Fiora they met on Prison Island is a different Fiora now— whatever name they had called her, he didn’t hear, but she was one of the enemy, and her new identity was proof. That’s simply something he has to accept.

And it hurts. It hurts so much, it makes him feel sick.

“Ugh…” The hero clenches his teeth. 

Dunban swore he wouldn’t cry. He never did, not anymore. Fiora had died to protect Colony 6, and she understood the risks, had wanted to protect them no matter what— that’s what he had thought, what he believed this entire time. He had no business crying over a choice she made herself, and he knew that. So he never cried over her choice.

But this? Piloting a metal faced mechon, not even recognizing those she knew, speaking in a different voice, a different _tongue_ , a _different_ _personality_? Taking on a life that she didn’t ask for, one that puts the entire population of the Bionis on the line?

This isn’t what Fiora wanted. She didn’t choose this.

She was a normal girl, with a normal life and normal dreams, and she had them all taken away from her in the span of a few minutes.

And then, even the death she wanted, the thing she had decided on with her own will, she couldn’t have.

How could the mechon take that away, too?

And so, Dunban cries. 

It starts slow. Initially, it catches him by surprise when the first drops slide down his cheeks— for a second, he looks up at the glass sky to see if there might be a leak. But it’s as clear as ever on the Eryth Sea, and the ceiling of Alcamoth is as spotless as ever. Slowly, he reaches up to his face to confirm the source, feeling the beads of tears on his eyelashes as they flutter closed, and pulls away as if he’s been burned. Part of him scoffs at the involuntary shedding of tears, thinks that they’ll stop in a moment, that he must have gotten something in his eye, but they keep coming. They drip down and down, and they refuse to stop, as much as Dunban wipes at his eyes and tilts his head back to mitigate them.

And there’s something about how he can’t control his own emotions that just leads to him completely and utterly caving in.

His throat tightens, the bridge of his nose begins to ache, and he curls in on himself, his forehead nearly touching his knees. The trickling of tears turns into whimpers, and the whimpers turn into sobs, and then he’s gone. He sobs, and he continues to even though part of him is insisting he stops, and his world turns blurry from the pain of it all. What’s worse, his entire body shakes, like a tree branch in a thunderstorm, because he won’t permit himself to make any noise if he’s going to act out like this— instead, he bites at the base of his thumb and presses inward in an attempt to muffle his voice. 

It’s miserable. It isn’t crying to help him feel any better. It’s crying out of anguish for his only sister, who may or may not be aware of what’s going on, who had her one wish defiled. It’s crying out of anger, that this is happening to Fiora of all people, who never deserved anything but a happy, regular life. It’s crying out of helplessness, out of the realization that he doesn’t know what to do— or if there is something that _can_ be done. 

Is it possible that some part of Fiora’s mind remains? Could they jog her memory? Or is it too late, is she too far gone?

Will they see her again? Surely they will, considering she pilots one of the metal faced mechons they keep running into. Then what will happen? Will they have to fight?

What if she doesn’t back down? Will they have to kill her?

The flickering thought of that— of Fiora dying by their blades— makes Dunban bite down hard enough to draw blood. If there’s any pain that comes out of it, he doesn’t notice it through his sobs, but some part of his brain acknowledges the copper taste that seeps into his mouth, and he pulls his hand away to assess the damage. When a wound greets him, a deep, angry red, he forces his hand down to his side and covers it with his sleeve.

“Dammit…” Dunban hisses, his voice aching from one word alone. It feels and sounds like he hasn’t spoken in years.

Exhausted, he lifts his non-wounded hand to his face and covers his eyes. This is enough. He needs to stop, now, before he gets any worse. “Dammit all.”

He can’t act out like this. It’s unbecoming of him. It’s not what he should do, former hero or not. His entire life, he swallowed down his feelings, and now shouldn’t be any different. 

But why did he do that in the first place? Did he learn that from his father, after his mother died? Or maybe while he was in the Force? Regardless of when he started, it’s ingrained in him now, to hold back how he really feels.

In the back of his mind, he wonders if that ever bothered Fiora at all, if only expressing the same four or five emotions ever hurt her in some way. Not that he could ask her now, but if he could, he would. Hell, he would give anything just to ask the _real_ Fiora something, or even just to talk to her, even if it’s for only a second. 

Even if it’s about something as mundane as what groceries she had on her list… _something._ Dunban just wants Fiora, the _real_ Fiora, to say _something._

Gods, he’s miserable. He clenches his teeth and tries to put such a pathetic scenario out of his mind.

It would be so easy if the mask he wears— that of a laid back, overly friendly swordsman— could be permanently affixed to his face. Then he would never have to worry about any of its cracks. As long as it still stayed on, everyone would be none the wiser.

It would be so easy...

Dunban walks along the railing, now, dragging his fingertips along the top as he goes. He focuses on that sense of touch, the feeling of his fingertips gliding across the smooth railing, so he can stabilize himself. _Deep breaths. Clear your mind. Relax your face. Don’t make eye contact with anyone._ He repeats it in his head like a mantra, hoping that saying it enough will continue to make it a reality. 

The walk leads him to the other side of the railing, close to the palace entrance. Dunban stops for a moment to try and un-tense his shoulders, and it only partially works, but he can accept that. That’s fine the way it is, as long as he looks comfortable to others.

Being like this is fine for him.

He reaches up to rub at his shoulder, but immediately shoots his hand back down once he hears a familiar set of footsteps approaching him from behind.

  
  
  


“So this is where you were?”

  
  
  


It’s Shulk.

For one final moment, Dunban falters. His eyes hurt and his entire body feels numb. He doesn’t want to see anyone— if he brushed Shulk off and walked away, he could get away with it, probably.

But that would be too much of him, wouldn’t it? The former hero couldn’t act so cold.

He takes a deep breath, shoves everything down, and puts his mask back on.

  
  
  


And he smiles at Shulk, like there’s nothing wrong at all.

  
  
  


“Shulk.”

**Author's Note:**

> I might update this w a second part of what happens when seven joins da party..... idk...... could be hell. Love that


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